Ep: She Ain't Deep, But She Sure Runs Fast
by owlcroft
Summary: Back at the estate, Hardcastle wrestles with loss and grief.


A/N: First published in a STAR for Brian 'zine. Sincere thanks to everyone for supporting the campaign.

**Epilogophilia – She Ain't Deep, But She Sure Runs Fast**

_While on a vacation to photograph wildlife, the judge and McCormick are involved in a plane crash which kills the pilot, Buzz Bird, an old friend of Hardcastle's. Stranded in the wilds of the Oregon mountains, they're discovered by Taylor Walsh, a crazy person dedicated to preserving the wilderness from incursions. He "passes judgement" on them and sentences them to death for despoiling "his territory", but the twosome escapes, setting a trap for Walsh and his confederate. With the bad guys in tow, Hardcastle and McCormick trek to the nearest town, arriving after a month in the wilds._

**Epilogue** – by Owlcroft

McCormick swung the shutter gently a few times. No squeak. He tilted his head and inspected the hinge closely, swung it once more and turned to face the desk, where the judge sat morosely flipping through a stack of mail, grimacing occasionally.

"Squeak's gone. How're you doing with that?" McCormick wrapped the tiny can of 3-in-One in a clean rag, shoved them both into his pocket, and approached the corner of the desk.

Hardcastle leaned back in his chair and huffed irritably. "We were only gone a few weeks. _Lookit_ all this!" He waved a hand and dislodged an entire stack of papers, which cascaded spectacularly to the floor. "Dammit!"

"I got 'em, Judge," Mark said placatingly as he knelt next to the wastebasket. "I told ya I'd help with it. Here, take these." He retrieved a handful of correspondence and held it up. "Hold it, there's one more." He reached the corner of the desk and snagged the last letter. "The Wilderness Society?" he read the heading aloud. "It's a thank you for a donation."

"Gimme that!" growled the judge, snatching it out of his hand.

"Hey, you're welcome." McCormick stood up, brushing off the knees of his jeans ostentatiously. "No problem at all. Glad to help. Don't mention it. No, really, Judge. There's no need to thank me at all. Honest, I was just happy to --"

"_Okay_!" Hardcastle glared at him, then changed his expression to a simper. "Thank you so much, Mr. McCormick," he said sweetly. The glare reappeared abruptly. "Now shut up, willya!"

Mark leaned a hip against the corner of the desk. "What's eating you, anyway?"

"Nothing. Go do some chores or something."

McCormick lowered his head and inspected the surly face across the desk. "Come on, Hardcase. Something's bothering you, and don't try to tell me it's having to catch up with your fan mail." He smiled coaxingly. "What is it?"

The judge sat silently, staring at the letter in his hand.

"Okay," Mark shrugged. "You wanna keep secrets from me, fine. I thought we were friends and all, but I guess I was wrong. A guy goes through a month in the wilds of Oregon with you, fighting the elements just to stay alive, sharing the dangers, fending off wild animals, crossing the raging rivers –"

"All _right,_" Hardcastle snapped. He put down the letter from The Wilderness Society and said in a goaded tone, "I've been thinking about Buzz."

McCormick looked at him silently, then moved to his chair at the other end of the desk. "What about Buzz?" he asked quietly.

The judge heaved a deep sigh. "I dunno. I guess I was just remembering stuff. And thinking about Buzz and how his whole life was in that plane." He rubbed the side of his face consideringly. "I mean, all he did was fly into the back country and take pictures of animals, and birds. It's what he did . . . and what he was."

"Well," said Mark, "you said he died doing what he loved, right?"

"Yeah," said the judge with another sigh. "And that's a good thing. And it was quick, I guess." He looked down at the letter in front of him. "But he didn't really have any family to speak of. A lot of friends, former clients. But who's gonna remember him in a year? Who's gonna be thinking about old Buzz and keeping his memory alive?"

Mark gestured to the letter in front of Hardcastle. "So you made a donation in his name, huh?"

"I thought it might help. But it's not . . . I dunno, it's not enough, ya know? There's nobody to . . . ah, hell. I don't even know how to put it."

"You're afraid his tracks aren't deep enough," McCormick said with a half-smile.

Hardcastle cleared his throat and muttered gruffly, "Yeah, maybe, something like that."

"Well, what more can you ask than that somebody remember you? Tell stories about you to somebody who'll tell those same stories to somebody else?" Mark lifted a hand, palm up. "Share memories of a guy and you keep him alive in a sense, right? And isn't that what you're doing right now?"

The judge pursed his lips and stared into space for a moment. "Yeah, I suppose so. Yeah." He nodded his head and touched the Wilderness Society letter with a forefinger. "Ya know, I see a pine tree against the blue sky and think of Buzz."

Mark looked at him with commiseration. "You miss him. He was pretty special, wasn't he?"

"Oh, you bet." Hardcastle snorted. "He was a real piece of work, old Buzz." He smiled and leaned back in his chair. "I knew Buzz for a _long_ time and he was one of the nicest, most sincere, honest people you could hope to meet. He really loved what he did, and he was damn good at it, too. One of the best."

"I wish I could've gotten to know him. He sounds like somebody I would've liked." McCormick settled into his chair and regarded the judge with patient affection.

Hardcastle grinned suddenly. "Hey, did I ever tell about the time Buzz was trying to get a photo of a bighorn sheep and a squirrel jumped on his head?"

"No, tell me."

finis


End file.
